Damien looked down at his plate

Damien looked down at his plate.

The corner of his mouth moved.

I kicked him again.

“You’re enjoying this,” I whispered.

“A little.”

That was the first time I realized Damien DeMarco had a sense of humor.

It was deeply inconvenient.

After lunch, Grandma wanted fresh air.

Damien pushed her wheelchair through the garden himself while his security detail stayed near the parking lot.

Grandma looked over her shoulder at the two suited men.

“Are those your friends?”

“They work for me.”

“They look constipated.”

I choked.

Damien kept walking.

“They take their jobs seriously.”

“So does my cardiologist. He still smiles.”

I covered my mouth.

Damien looked at me.

There was actual amusement in his eyes.

That was worse.

Because I liked it.

Grandma talked about me for forty minutes.

Every embarrassing story.

The homemade princess crown I wore until sixth grade.

The time I drove three hours because she said a porch light was flickering.

The two jobs I worked after college.

The nursing assistant certification I never finished because I couldn’t afford to stop working.

Damien listened.

Really listened.

No phone.

No watch.

No bored executive nod.

When Grandma said, “Phoebe acts like she doesn’t need anybody,” Damien glanced at me.

“I’ve noticed.”

Three words.

They landed harder than they should have.

I had spent four months cleaning his house believing I was basically furniture.

Apparently, I wasn’t.

Before we left, Grandma demanded a photograph.

A nurse held up her phone.

Damien stood beside me.

“This is insane,” I whispered.

“Probably.”

“Smile.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Then don’t.”

The nurse counted down.

At the last second, Damien rested one hand lightly at my back.

I looked up at him.

He looked down at me.

Click.

That was the photograph.

Not us smiling.

Not us pretending.

Just me looking startled and Damien looking at me like he had forgotten someone else was in the room.

Grandma studied the picture.

She said nothing.

That should have worried me.

Instead, I was distracted by the fact that Damien’s hand stayed against my back after the picture was finished.

In the hallway, I finally pulled away.

“Thank you.”

He nodded.

“You saved me.”

“I know.”

“But the performance is over.”

He glanced into Grandma’s room.

She was smiling at the photograph.

Then he looked at me.

“You told your sister you needed a boyfriend for one day.”

“Yes.”

“The day isn’t over.”

Right on cue, Grandma called from inside.

“Damien? You’re coming back for dinner Sunday, right?”

I silently begged him to say no.

He looked straight at me.

“I’d be delighted.”

I wanted to strangle him.

Instead, he walked back inside.

I stood in the hallway staring after him, with my pulse doing things I did not approve of.

I thought the dangerous part was my fake fiancé being my boss.

I had no idea that within a week, his real fiancée would threaten my grandmother, accuse me of extortion, and create a lie ugly enough to force lawyers, security footage, and half the DeMarco household into the truth.

And it all started because Damien DeMarco decided one borrowed day wasn’t enough.

PART 2: Damien’s dead grandmother explained why he refused to leave.

Monday morning, I found Damien drinking black coffee in the breakfast room.

He didn’t look up from his tablet.

“Your grandmother called.”

I stopped.

“She has your number?”

“She asked one of my men.”

I closed my eyes.

“Please tell me she didn’t invite you Sunday.”

“She asked what I wanted for dinner.”

“You told her you were busy.”

“I moved a meeting.”

My eyes opened.

“You moved a meeting?”

“Yes.”

“You once made a senator wait forty minutes because your schedule changed.”

“He survived.”

That night, I found Damien in the library.

The same room where he’d overheard my call.

I put down a stack of books.

“Why?”

He glanced up.

“You’ll need to be more specific.”

“Why are you still pretending?”

For once, Damien didn’t answer immediately.

Then he closed the folder in front of him.

“My grandmother raised me.”

That shut me up.

“She was the only person in my family who didn’t care what my name meant,” he said.

His voice was flat.

Controlled.

That somehow made it heavier.

“She asked me to come home one Sunday. I had a meeting.”

I waited.

“I chose the meeting.”

A car moved along the driveway outside.

Headlights crossed the library wall.

“She died three days later.”

I sat down.

There was nothing clever to say.

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded once.

“When I heard you talking to your sister, I recognized the sound.”

“What sound?”

“Someone trying to negotiate with time.”

That hit me right in the ribs.

Suddenly the SUVs made sense.

Lunch made sense.

The ridiculous sweetheart made sense.

“You weren’t only helping me.”

“No.”

I looked at my hands.

“Grandma would tell you guilt is a terrible reason to keep visiting.”

“I suspect she would.”

“She’d probably charge you for therapy, too.”

“She already told me I work too much.”

I smiled.

Then Damien said, “She also said you’re terrible at accepting help.”

My smile vanished.

“She said what?”

“In considerable detail.”

“I’m disconnecting her phone.”

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

Quiet.

Brief.

Real.

I stared at him.

He noticed.

The sound disappeared, but the warmth didn’t.

Before leaving, I stopped at the door.

“Go Sunday.”

His eyes lifted.

“But not because of your grandmother. And not because you owe me.”